


Bury the Burden, Baby, Make Us Proud

by submergedmemory



Series: Love Is Like Music [6]
Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Backstory, Child Neglect, F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/submergedmemory/pseuds/submergedmemory
Summary: Glenn’s mother comes to visit. It goes as well as you’d expect.
Relationships: Glenn Close/Morgan Freeman (Dungeons and Daddies)
Series: Love Is Like Music [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708477
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Bury the Burden, Baby, Make Us Proud

**Author's Note:**

> If I had a nickel for every time I wrote a fic about Glenn’s parents and titled it with a Thao reference, I would have two nickels, which isn’t a lot and also it’s not even weird bc Glenn presumedly came from two people and the two Thao songs I referenced are about parents. Anyway.

—

It’s not the most unexpected of visits, but it still catches Morgan off guard when a well-dressed older woman, looking barely a day over fifty with not even a grey hair on her head and holding a carpetbag in her hands, appears seemingly out of nowhere on a sleepy Saturday afternoon.

“Hello! You must be Morgan. I’m Henrietta. Glenn has told me so much about you,” Henrietta Christine Gummer says, giving Morgan a once-over. Her dark eyes linger on Morgan’s heavily pregnant belly for longer than necessary before she meets Morgan’s eyes and offers her hand in a ladylike sort of manner.

Morgan doesn’t feel particularly inclined to let the woman in, knowing what she knows, but her own parents had drilled the concept of politeness and respect for one’s elders into her,  _ or else, _ so she does, leaning in a little to take Henrietta’s proffered hand, shaking it lightly. Her fingers are neatly trimmed, painted a delicate shade of pink, and very callused, which surprises Morgan a little. She smells faintly of violets. “Of course. Please come in, Aunty,” Morgan says, smiling sweetly, holding the door open, and Henrietta smiles back, delighted and charmed.

“Please make yourself at home. I’ll put on a pot of tea,” Morgan continues, discreetly sending Glenn a quick “ _ Your mom is here _ ” text before preparing for a long afternoon.

—

Morgan expects Glenn to rush home as soon as her text gets left on read, but that doesn’t mean she expects the door of their apartment to slam open so hard the doorknob rattles not even half an hour later. Glenn stumbles out of his boots and into the living room, glasses askew, several grocery bags hanging from his arms, panting heavily and his curls plastered to his forehead.

“Did you fucking  _ run _ up eight flights of stairs, Close,” Morgan asks at the same time Glenn screams, “Don’t believe a damn word she says!”

Henrietta’s eyes narrow and she curves her lips in the same fake way Glenn does when he’s about to throw out a well-aimed barb that inevitably lands him in hot water, and Morgan grabs the still full teapot and stands up from the sofa with exaggerated difficulty. “Oh, my goodness. We’re out of tea. I’ll refill it. Close, come help me,” Morgan proclaims a little too formally, making her way into the kitchen to wait for Glenn.

—

The water’s starting to boil and the teapot emptied by the time the muffled sound of scoldings and accusations fade into silence and Glenn makes his way into the kitchen, more of a mess now than when he first barged into his house. Morgan looks up from the slowly steaming kettle.

“Glenn,” she says, calm, and the tension bleeds out of Glenn’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, hugging the groceries closer to his chest. “I just —”

“...Wasn’t expecting it,” Morgan finishes. Glenn makes a noise of agreement, dumping the bags onto the table.

“I’ll take care of all this,” he says when Morgan lifts herself up from her leaning position by the stove, but Morgan waves him off.

“I haven’t danced or skated in weeks. I’ll rot away into nothing if I don’t keep myself busy.” Morgan doesn’t bring up the fact that for Glenn, “taking care of all this” means shoving everything into random cupboards now only to complain about not being able to find anything when he’s cooking later. “Maybe you should keep your mother company while I do this?”

Glenn rolls his eyes. “She’s probably trash talking us to her… business partner right this second. She’ll be fine.”

Business partner.  _ Interesting. _ “Well, then shut up and let me help.”

“Fine.”

They unpack the groceries in silence. Morgan smiles a little when she finds a box of her favorite candy hiding in between a daikon and a bottle of fish sauce. “Were you planning on beef stew tonight, Close?”

“Only for you and the gremlin. Cooking for anyone else and they need to pay me.”

“Damn, guess we’re ordering takeout for your mother, then.”

Glenn smiles, shaking his head as he tosses a bag of carrots and some bean sprouts into the crisper drawer. “I guess. It won’t be good if I start it now, anyway.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Glenn shrugs, still smirking a little bit to himself, but it’s not long before his face falls and he sighs, raking a hand over his face. “Look, Freeman, whatever my ma said to you —”

“— is no big thing,” Morgan interrupts, putting a hand on Glenn’s shoulder. “But I’m starting to think we maybe should’ve just said yes to her big charity whatever, right?”

“What’s the fucking owner of a chain of luxury resorts know about fucking charity events, anyway,” Glenn grouses, more to himself than to Morgan, ripping a bag of offbrand rice chex open and haphazardly pouring it into a plastic container, spilling cereal everywhere.

“So yes, huh.”

Glenn shrugs. “Maybe. She says she’s on her way to France for some big business thing with her business partner and wanted me to drive her to the airport tomorrow morning. As if she doesn’t have her own driver or a million people working in her fucking house.” Glenn shoves the container into the cabinet and closes the door with a bit more force than necessary. There’s more cereal on the floor than there is in the container. “She’s just upset she doesn’t get to casually neg us in front of all her famous ‘friends.’” He kicks some of the stray cereal under the table, silent for a moment. “But I think you threw her off with the… you know,” he adds, making an exaggerated rounding motion in front of his stomach.

Morgan snorts. “Somehow I doubt that,” she says, drumming her fingers on said stomach thoughtfully, turning off the heat on the stove and watching the billowing steam slow to lackadaisical tendrils before taking it off the burner and refilling the empty tea pot. “Does she hate me?”

“My parents could show me concrete proof of the existence of aliens and I would instantly disbelieve the concept of the entire fucking sky,” Glenn says immediately, at once both vehement and dismissive. He spins his wedding band around and around on his finger with his thumb. “It’s like you said — no big thing. Don’t even give her the time of day, babe.”

Morgan hadn’t intended to, not even for a moment. It’s not herself that she’s particularly concerned about. She smiles at Glenn, tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear and touches his hand reassuringly. “Of course, magpie.” She passes the teapot over to Glenn by it’s handle. “But right now, we shouldn’t keep her waiting. The sooner we deal with this, the better.”

Glenn makes a petulant sort of sound that transforms Morgan’s smile into a laugh, but he follows her anyway, wearing an expression like he’s ready to fight a whole entire war by himself. “I guess.”

—

Morgan rarely gets a full night’s rest nowadays, what with the back pain and the heartburn and the frequent trips to the bathroom, but none of those things are what wakes her up and has her waddling out of bed in the middle of the night this time.

(“Llawdfnnvsz,” Glenn mumbles grumpily into his pillow at the sudden disturbance. Morgan absently runs a hand through his hair before tossing her part of the comforter over his head to block out the light in the hallway.)

“It’s late, Aunty,” is all Morgan says when she opens the ajar door of her and Glenn’s upturned studio and finds Henrietta, in her silk robe that probably costs more than Morgan can earn in a month, sitting at the abandoned piano bench with a foot propped up and one of Glenn’s guitars in her lap.

Henrietta runs a thumb over a single string on the guitar, making it sing a pleasant, simple note. She looks pensive. Sad, almost.

“We have to wake up early if we want to get to the airport in time.”

“You have a lovely apartment,” Henrietta says. Morgan isn’t sure if Henrietta is deflecting or if she’s being selective with her hearing.

“We’ve worked hard on it, yes.”

“I especially like your little studio here,” Henrietta continues, and Morgan has to fight the urge to bark out a disbelieving laugh. At one point, the room had looked nice, a little home recording setup with a wall of guitars and Morgan’s petit grand given a place of honor right in the middle of the room.

It hadn’t taken long for their unexpected guest to worm their way into their hearts, though, because now the piano sits in a corner in their living room instead and a partially put together crib has taken its place in the studio, surrounded by a mess of children’s things and partly ripped out sound-proofing. A rocking chair sits quietly in the corner. The guitars are the only thing left undisturbed. Well.  _ Until now, _ Morgan thinks, exasperated. Glenn would be throwing a fit if he knew.

“Did Glenn get to bed okay,” Henrietta asks, as if hearing Morgan’s thoughts. “He didn’t seem well when we retired.”

Morgan nods warily. “He was fine. Out like a light.” After he had gotten blazed out of his fucking mind on the balcony and accidentally-intentionally flashed most of the apartment complex. But Henrietta didn’t need to hear that part. Definitely not.

Henrietta smiles like she’s relieved. “I’m glad he wasn’t too much trouble. He was always such a handful growing up. So dramatic.” She’s watching Morgan with a significant look, like she’s waiting for something.

_ What are you playing at, old woman? _ “...Do you play guitar, Aunty,” Morgan asks instead, ignoring the unspoken implication of Henrietta’s words. Morgan could play games just as well as anyone.

If Henrietta is surprised, she hides it very well. “Just a tad,” she says, with a modesty that sounds as genuine as it does practiced. “Nothing impressive. I would never be so bold as to make a career out of it.”

Morgan narrows her eyes, but she hums understandingly. “Could you play me something?”

Oh, it’s been a long time since I’ve played. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Could you try?” Morgan makes her way to the rocking chair and sits down, relaxing into it. Her back hurts so fucking much. “I think  _ this _ one would love to hear,” she adds, running a hand over her swollen belly disarmingly.

This time, Henrietta  _ does _ look surprised, but she recovers her composure quickly and her expression softens. “...of course.”

They sit in silence as Henrietta works on the slow, methodical task of turning the tuning pegs and plucking the strings, tightening then loosening then retightening just so, until something resembling order sounds when she strums the strings.

She plays a familiar piece, romantic and dreamy and just a little melancholic, and Morgan smiles a little in recognition.

Glenn had played her this particular piece before, and she had returned the favor soon after, transcribing the guitar strings into piano keys. Morgan had not been ashamed to admit that Glenn’s rendition had blown her pale imitation out of the water then.

(Glenn had still looked at her like he had never heard of the concept of a fucking cover before and she’d just relayed brand new universe shattering information to him. She still blushed anyway, a rare occurrence.)

She’s not ashamed to admit the same now, watching Henrietta manipulate and coax out the notes on the strings, shape them into beautiful melody like her only purpose of existence is to make beautiful music, and Morgan closes her eyes and lets the sound wash over her.

The piece ends with a flourish. Morgan sighs deeply. She opens her eyes. “Did you teach Glenn how to play, Aunty,” Morgan asks, after the silence hangs in the air long after the last ephemeral notes fade into memory.

Henrietta is quiet, lost in a memory of her own. “No,” Henrietta says, placing the guitar down gently on the floor. “ I tried. But I’m not a teacher. We both got frustrated with each other. He wanted to play, but it wasn’t because of me.” There’s a sharp note in her words. But then she smiles, something soft and fond and affectionate, as she continues. “But my business partner, Sidney, was an accomplished musician. She still is, and she’s an excellent instructor. She managed to teach my son everything he knows, even with how difficult he was."

Henrietta spares Morgan a sidelong glance, and Morgan frowns, pursing her lips in thought. Deciding.

“Are you making a statement or an accusation,” Morgan asks. She’s tired of playing monopoly when knocking the board off the table had always served her well in the past. Fuck subtlety. “If this is how you talk about him behind his back  _ to his own wife, _ I’m not surprised that he holds his relationship with you in such low regard, Ms. Gummer.”

Glenn’s mother has the audacity to look taken aback, upset that her little “test” or whatever the fuck didn’t work, and it sets Morgan’s teeth on edge, but she leans back into the rocker again and waits to hear what Henrietta has to say.

“Well?”

And Henrietta is silent for a long time, watching Morgan watch her, contemplating.

Finally, Henrietta sighs. “I didn’t expect to have a child, Ms. Freeman — not at that age — I believe the term, ‘advanced maternal age,’ is what’s  _ en vogue _ now.” Henrietta takes the time to scowl, and Morgan rubs her stomach, humming in acknowledgement and reluctant understanding.

“I certainly was not expecting to have a child with that man. I wasn’t —” Henrietta stops, raking a hand over her face into her unruly hair.

“I did not grow up with a father. I never knew him. It was incredibly difficult. I didn’t want Glenn to grow up without both parents in his life. A young man needs a father.” Henrietta looks at Morgan and smiles, a slight upturning of her lips.

Morgan nods thoughtfully. She offers her own faint smile at Henrietta. “Sidney must have been real cross, watching you pretend to be even marginally involved with a man you hated.” She leans forward as much as she can manage, elbows on the armrest of the rocking chair, fingers steepled under her chin. “Or did she  _ also _ not give a shit when she watched you dump your kid off on his deadbeat dad so you could go gallivanting in the Alps with her?”

The benign smile on Henrietta’s face freezes, and she looks caught, just for a moment, before it cracks into an ugly grimace, furiously angry. Morgan holds up her hands in surrender, placating, before Henrietta can come to the very worst conclusion. It’s a low blow, petty and cruel, but Morgan ’s never been completely without mercy. It’s always been her greatest vice.

“I’m sorry, that was unkind of me. Completely uncalled for. It must have been incredibly hard, to hide away such a fundamental part of yourself. I, of all people, should have known better than to imply otherwise. You shouldn’t have had to pretend. I’m sorry both of you had to go through that.”

Henrietta relaxes, only marginally, still cautious and displeased. She holds her chin up, proud, almost haughty.

“It was better that way,” Henrietta says simply , arms crossed almost defiantly, barely holding in the explosion of her rage .  _ She really does look like Glenn, _ Morgan thinks idly — everything from the soft curl of their hair to the crookedness of their smiles to the defensiveness in their demeanors.  _ Not the eyes, though, _ the one thing Henrietta did not share with her son — dark and shrewd and calculating eyes that belie the youthfulness of her face.

“I had a very successful business to run. The optics of a woman — two women — with our…  _ sensibilities… _ ” she cuts herself off. “I love my son, Ms. Freeman, and I provided what I could for Glenn.” Henrietta smiles, knife-sharp and challenging. “I could provide  _ a lot. _ ”

Morgan raises a pointed, unimpressed eyebrow. She can brandish her own shiv. "Children are smart, Ms. Gummer. And adults are stupid and arrogant, especially the ones that think otherwise. They know things, even if they don't have the words for it." _Especially when you're going on business trips with your partner and dumping your son on his deadbeat father for months at a time,_ Morgan does not say. “So can you look me in the eyes and tell me you _actually_ believe that?”

_ Can you look me in the eyes and tell me you actually expect  _ me _ to believe that? _

And just like that, the artifice falls away, and Henrietta uncrosses her arms, looks away, not meeting Morgan’s gaze. She suddenly looks very much like her age, and older.

“No. I suppose not.”

Morgan tries not to let her disdain show, just holds her hand to her belly protectively. It was a miracle, or maybe a tragedy, that nobody had given the sad state of Glenn's living situation a second glance. But Henrietta Christine Gummer had money. Money probably would have solved all sorts of problems.

Then again, her own family didn’t come from means, and they also weren’t terribly subtle with  _ their _ questionable parenting. Nobody had paid  _ her _ any mind, either.  _ The world is filled with uncaring and unobservant people,  _ Morgan can’t help but think cynically.

Morgan doesn't say anything for a long time, carefully considering her next words, but Henrietta surprises her when she speaks first. “I was not a good parent. I know this. I think I’ve always known this. But I really  _ do _ love my son, Ms. Freeman — and I do want to be a meaningful part of his life, however skeptical you might be.”

She looks down at her lap where her hands are folded, fingernails neat and trimmed and very, very callused, looking the very image of contrition. “I wasn’t really there to actually parent him. I suppose I want to overcompensate now.” Henrietta finally looks up, her dark eyes tired. “And I just want to make sure that he’s being careful with who he gives his heart to. He wasn't when he was young."  


_Bill was his father. You are his mother. He shouldn't have_ had _to be careful._ Morgan resists the urge to roll her eyes, her jaw clenched. “Have you actually told Glenn any of this, Ms. Gummer?”

Henrietta looks flummoxed, like the thought never even crossed her mind, and Morgan really  _ does _ roll her eyes this time, huffing a frustrated sigh.  _ Of course not. _

“It might seem obvious to you, Ms. Gummer, but it’s not. Glenn can’t make any decision unless he knows everything. And you have no fucking claim on him.” Morgan pauses. “Maybe he feels the same way about you the way he feels about his father. He’s made his feelings on Bill  _ very _ clear. But I’m not Glenn’s keeper. There’s no way I can speak for him and say whether or not he would want to maintain a relationship with you.”

It's not a lie, though at one point it might have been. That had been before she had swelled up like a balloon about to pop, and the little gremlin living inside of her now had changed things. It had certainly hardened her heart towards  _ her _ own family, her foolish dream that she could not help but hold fast in her heart. Now even the thought of any of them laying a hand on her child makes her sick with rage.

Maybe Glenn’s love for his family is frozen over like her own now. Or maybe the thought of a little one without the warmth of an extended family, however illusory it was, had melted his.

“I’m not Glenn’s keeper. You need to ask him yourself, Aunty,” Morgan repeats. “Just fucking  _ talk _ to him. For both your peace of mind.” Morgan collapses back into her chair and closes her eyes, tired. She’s  _ so fucking _ tired. Maybe she’ll actually get a full night’s rest if this keeps up. Probably not, though.

An uncomfortable silence fills the room again, the time for discussion come and gone, an uneasy detente and nothing to show for it. Morgan hopes, very foolishly, that Henrietta will think she’s just fallen asleep right then and there and leave her alone with her thoughts and her child.

But no, that would be too easy. Morgan hears rather than sees Henrietta get up from her seat on the piano bench and make her way towards her. Morgan resists the urge to sigh.

Henrietta lays a gentle hand on Morgan’s arm, carefully coaxing her out of the rocking chair. “It’s late, dear. You should be in bed,” she says, gently, almost chidingly. Morgan huffs out an exasperated laugh. but she touches Henrietta’s hand reassuringly and allows herself to be led out, anyway.

“Of course, Aunty. Good night.”

—

Morgan is the last one up and out of bed — a rare occurrence, but maybe for the better, she thinks, as she watches Glenn and Henrietta pointedly not look at each other the entire drive to the airport while Morgan stares out the window and drinks tea.

The drive is long and quiet and very, very uncomfortable.

Henrietta Christine is a busy woman, and the only reason she was able to stay as long as she did — one full entire day, how indulgent — was because she actually did have business to take care of in San Dimas and decided to kill two birds with one stone and take a day to see her estranged son and his wife.

“How magnanimous,” Glenn mutters under his breath, cross and exasperated, but there’s not quite so much bite in his words as there usually is. Henrietta smiles in response, the edge of it knife-sharp, but not quite a dagger. Morgan sips on her lukewarm gas station tea, observing.  _ Interesting. _

They reach the check-in area, and Henrietta stands in front of Glenn and Morgan, holding her carpetbag awkwardly in her hands. She sets it down and turns to Glenn, who reluctantly allows her to hold him in a tight hug. “Take care of yourself,” Henrietta says, her voice careful and her eyes suddenly misty.

Glenn grunts an acknowledgement. “I always do.”

“Try to call me, baby. Okay?” Henrietta adds.

Glenn hesitates. “...I’ll try to remember,” he says, eventually, turning his attention to his phone, and Henrietta sighs, nodding.

She turns to Morgan then, and she holds out hand for Morgan to shake. “It was so lovely to meet you, dear,” Henrietta says.

Morgan offers a very,  _ very _ faint smile, and leans in slightly, taking Henrietta’s proffered hand, still smelling faintly of violets. “You too, Aunty,” she says, just as Henrietta surprises Morgan with a full on hug for her, which — fine. Morgan could allow one, and only one. She’s generous like that.

“Please take care of my son, Ms. Freeman,” Henrietta says, quiet so that only Morgan can hear. “And please make sure he takes care of you, too.” 

Morgan shakes her head before awkwardly patting Henrietta on the back. “We already do, Ms. Gummer,” she corrects, gently, before pulling away, and Henrietta nods.

“Have a pleasant trip, Aunty,” Morgan says, louder.

“...Yeah. Be safe, ma,” Glenn adds, finally looking up from his phone to spare his mother one last look.

Henrietta smiles, grasping their hands one last time before picking up her bag, turning and making her way towards the check-in. She walks through the automatic doors and disappears from their sight.

Glenn stands there for a long time, staring at the spot where his mother had just been standing. He looks lost, like he’s not sure what happens next.

Morgan frowns slightly.  _ That won’t do. _

Morgan sidles in close, wraps her arm around Glenn’s waist. She takes his hand and lifts it to her lips to drop a kiss on it, before laying it on her stomach, holding it there.

“My magpie,” Morgan murmurs in his ear, so that nobody else can hear. “Ready to go home?”

Glenn is surprised at the bold display of affection, his pale eyes widening behind his glasses, but he recovers quickly, softening, and he smiles the smile reserved only for her, soft and sweet and just a little bit shy. “...Yeah,” Glenn says, his voice rough with emotion, unsaid. He leans his forehead against Morgan’s and holds his hand against her belly protectively. He doesn’t let go.

“Let’s go home.”

  
—

**Author's Note:**

> I’m like, ninety five percent sure it’s smooth sailing from here on out.
> 
> EDIT 01/22/2021: Did some very light editing, the biggest being adding "Christine" to Henrietta's name. Everything is basically the same, though.


End file.
